My mental health problems started on 7 August 2012 at 5.30pm. I got a call from my sister telling me my Dad had gone into cardiac arrest and to get home quickly. By the time I’d got to my flat to drive up to the Midlands I’d had another call to say the paramedics had certified my Dad as dead.
The man who had always been there, always a friend, a power of strength, the person who gave me life, my values and loved me warts and all. My world had been taken from me and I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye.
I am a 38-year-old male, I would and have always been described as one of the lads. I love footy, enjoy a beer and a boisterous lifestyle and I have been diagnosed with depression.
I found it very difficult to admit to myself that I was struggling but I knew something was wrong. My stupid male pride and assumption that I was less of a man for struggling with my mental health lead me to conceal my depression from myself and others.
You could ask me one simple question, but my anxiety will turn that into 20 questions within seconds. “Are you okay?” becomes “Why are they asking me that?”, “Do I not look okay?”, “Have I done something?”, “Am I in trouble?”.
That’s the best way I describe it to people. I worry about everything, even to the point I worry about worrying.
A lot of people just say “don’t worry” or “you’ve got nothing to worry about”. I then feel stupid…and then worry about feeling stupid.
